Unmarked Bills
by Castello
Summary: Lassiter didn't want to be in the police auction. He didn't want to dance on stage without a shirt and he certainly didn't want some random stranger to bid for his time. However, for the sake of new guns around the department, he just might. Too bad he's a little too uncomfortably familiar with his mystery bidder.
1. Chapter 1

**I apologize, because I don't have a beta and my brain sort of checked out a while ago.**

 **I don't own these characters, or their show. I just have a disease. Side effects include a need to ship all things. No matter how hetero the cast is.**

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The public police auction. This horror show was the kind of thing that came with stories of late-night encounters and the like, because honestly, you never knew what kind of creep would buy you out. It was a stupid idea to begin with, selling time with the officers as a form of fundraising? The whole thing was just prostitution disguised as charity. McNab had gone fast, O'Hara even faster, and Carlton had been surprised to see that even Chief Vick had quite a bit of charm about her, getting a rather large bid for her time. It had been going well honestly, and there'd be plenty of money to fund that new weapons unit Lassiter had been dropping subtle hints about since the whole... 'budget discussion' came up.

That was how this whole ludicrous situation had started off after all, in the chief's office, two days before the auction.

Lassiter had written up an absolutely _beautiful_ report on exactly why he thought they needed to rev-up the firepower around the place. He'd made such a great argument, five pages worth, in fact. Every page was well presented with great evidence, each paper chocked full of helpful facts, resources, even gun sale prices, all laid out in a crisp, mellow folder. There was no way the chief could ignore something this well put together. He would just casually slip it onto her desk, and if she asked him about it, he could simply say it was a great idea, and that the (intelligent)person that proposed it should get a raise.

However, Vick had been a little less than thrilled with him after discovering the folder on her desk. She's beckoned him inside her office with an authoritative glower, "Lassiter, if you want funding for a special unit, you'd better be prepared to woo the crowd on Friday."

Carlton groaned irritably, upset that being called into her office did _not_ , in fact, mean that she was on board with the idea. "I'm not doing that thing." he grumbled.

"Everyone is entering, Carlton." came a soft, yet stern mutter, the chief not looking up from her desk as he stood in front of it.

"Well I'm not." he huffed, annoyed, "It's degrading. Honestly, I'm surprised _you're_ going to be doing it."

Now she looked up, "Excuse me?"

"No disrespect chief, but you're a highly ranked member of this police force. I can't believe you'd sell yourself to someone like that."

"For Pete's sake, Lassiter, we're not selling sex! It's just three hours. That's a dinner, a movie, an interview, whatever, no one is forcing you to sleep with them!"

"Last year three of our officers came back in the same clothes, and one got pregnant."

" _Ashley_ got married. They're happily living together just out of Santa Barbra, detective."

He grunted awkwardly, "Not doing it."

No way. He was not going to have some mystery woman run her hands all over him for three hours, hoping to get lucky. He wasn't that kind of man. Lassiter was starting his stride out, ready to take all of his words in heed when she called after him, "If you want that new ammunitions unit, you'll do it."

Carlton bit down on his cheek, spinning back around, "That's extortion."

"It's incentive. We have no money to pay for new units like that unless we can rake in some serious donations on Friday." she stated, lifting an elbow up onto her desk and hiding her face in her palm.

"Is the station that low on funds?"

The chief nodded silently, "We might have to start making cuts if we don't get enough."

"That's why you're entering?"

"Naturally."

Carlton frowned. As a responsible member of the Santa Barbra Police Department, it was on his shoulders to help out his coworkers. He could stand a little groping, he supposed. Especially if it meant a new weapons unit in his grasp. "Fine." he barked, "I'll do it."

He watched wearily as the chief's face visibly brightened, "Great. The bidder will have to sign a contract. You can't be forced into anything that harms your well being." she offered, trying to sound reassuring.

"And if it doesn't harm me directly?"

She smiled sharply, "Then suck it up for an hour or two."

So now here he was, sucking it up. He'd been pacing behind the stage for the last two announcements, doing his best not to nervously bite at his nails. He was up next. As soon as the officer on stage was bought, he'd be the next item for sale. He'd have to strut out onto that hallow, wooden stage and pretend to be enticing. Carlton did a lot of things for his guns, but he never expected to be taking off his shirt to a Pink! song for the good of the cause. A startling round of applause invaded his thoughts, signaling his turn.

With a metaphorical shot of courage, a light slap to his cheek, and hard gulp, he stepped up onto the stage.

He was _not_ going to strut down the catwalk like a woman, but he was determined not to look too out of place, he needed someone to bid on him after all. With hesitant steps, he made his way to the end. The song started up, and someone started to introduce him through a microphone. His hands clenched at his sides a few times before he could actually manage to gather the courage to lift them. One button, two, barely bothering to actually move along with the music, but sort of... swaying a little to the left, then back into a neutral position.

Nobody bid even when the announcer had finished with his introduction. He felt uncomfortable again, more so than before he'd actually stepped on stage. Should he be doing something else? He caught the eye of O'Hara, sitting in the crowd next to the man who had undoubtedly bid on her. She made a small movement, nodding furiously at him, trying to signal him _something_. Probably to get him to move his freaking feet.

"Alright, do I hear one thousand?"

Not a hand raised.

"Oh, come on folks! This man here's a mighty fine specimen. He can- uh..." the announcer looked down at his cards, obviously searching for something to entice the bidders, "He can reload and shoot a gun in under five seconds! That's a department best, ladies!"

O'Hara raised her fingers to her cheeks, and pulled on the ends of her lips, and subtle gesture for him to smile. Carlton hadn't even noticed he'd been scowling. Tentatively, he raised a lip, forming more of an unsettling grin than an actual smile. He didn't miss the way Vick pinched the bridge of her nose in disappointment.

"How about five hundred?" the announcer tried again.

What a great confidence builder this was. "Four hundred?"

Still nothing, save for a few teasing whispers and some vivid expressions of pity.

"If you need some housework done, this man's just the one for you! Maybe he could shoot out a rat infestation! He does have a mighty impressive aim accuracy!"

Lassiter groaned with embarrassment, ready to button up his shirt and call it a night. Whiskey sounded good. _Great_ actually. He lifted a hand with rejection, about to push the first button in when the announcer stopped him, "Actually folks, we have an anonymous bidder on detective Lassiter! A generous donation of three hundred dollars!"

The crowd clapped awkwardly as Lassiter practically vaulted off the stage, more than prepared to never step onto another stage in his life. A new song kicked in and there seemed to be a fresh fever of excited cheers as a rather toned officer walked out with a cheeky grin, and an entirely unbuttoned uniform.

Three hours. That was it. He'd treat whatever lady decided to finally take pity on him to a meal or something, and then politely be on his way. Not that he wasn't thankful to be off that godforsaken stage, he just wasn't very enthusiastic about spending the night with a stranger. He slowly made his way over to the station's secretary, who'd been running the cash box throughout the night. "Where's my bidder?" he grunted.

She looked up at him bashfully, "Oh, umm, there was no name, just an address." the secretary handed him a small card with the information scribbled onto it.

"Fine." he muttered, not bothering to share another word before getting himself out of that event hall as quickly as possible.

Never again would he do that. Not even in the name of guns.


	2. Chapter 2

**Not my men, if they were... Well, you don't have to be psychic to know what would _suddenly_ become cannon overnight.**

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He'd driven right to the address he'd been given, not really bothering to try and do the normal amounts of background checks he liked to go through. This bidder _had_ been anonymous after all. He didn't even get a name. There would be no way of knowing who had paid for him until he opened that door. Of course, he did have the option of simply looking up the address in hopes of getting a name off of the lease, but the thought hadn't actually come to mind until he was pulling in front of the building.

The complex was fine, a little less kempt than his own, but nothing too shabby. He would scope out what he could before knocking on that door though, make no mistake. Carlton Lassiter was not a man to throw precaution to the wind. Especially if this person was shady enough to bid for someone's night.

First, he'd question the landlord, maybe a neighbor or two if he had the time before he was really supposed to be there, whatever he could in the span of the next half hour. He'd come early, naturally. Even if he needed to spend time investigating, there was no reason to show up late. Punctuality was key. All plans were thrown out the window when he passed the landlord's office however, a sign hanging from the door with 'Be back tomorrow' printed in bold, orange.

It also occurred to him just how strange he might seem if he just went knocking around on the neighbor's doors late at night. Well, nine o'clock wasn't necessarily a universal curfew... No. Just knock on the stupid door. Get it over with.

He took a narrow breath, and lifted his hand before hesitantly knocking on the obscenely blue door. There was a fumbling noise on the other side, like someone had tripped. Lassiter, on impulse, brought his palm to rest over the gun on his hip, because of course he'd brought it. There were 101 reasons not to leave it at home tonight, and only about 7 in favor of abandoning it (yes, he had made a list of the pros and cons). He knocked on the door again, "Everything alright in there?"

The door was pulled open in a split second, making Lassiter flinch. In front of him stood a very wet, nearly naked, Shawn Spencer, "S-Spencer? What the hell are you doing here? And... what in the world are you wearing?"

"Well, Lassie, I happen to live here." Shawn replied smugly, pulling the door open another fraction as an invitation to enter, "As for the towel, I can only say that I was just coming out of a glorious shower when you knocked. You're half an hour early Lassie. I could have gotten away with another singing another Sinatra song if you'd been on time."

"Well, I was planning to find out information on the person who had bought me." he huffed, stepping inside and taking in his new surroundings. "If I had known it was going to be you I wouldn't have shown up at all."

"You're required to!" Shawn chirped, shutting the door and bounding up next to him, "I spent good money on you!"

"You spent three hundred dollars, Spencer."

"Exactly! Do you know what that money could have bought me? Why... think of how many delicious pineapple smoothies that could have paid for!"

Carlton huffed. This was not how he wanted to spend his next three hours. Especially since Shawn had made absolutely no move to put on anything decent, he just stood there in his living room with nothing but a towel. It wouldn't have bothered him that much, if Shawn hadn't laid candles out all over the god damn apartment. On the table, on the bookshelf, a jarred, scented on sitting on the TV. They were everywhere, and provided the sole light source for the entire space. "Spencer what the hell is this?" he finally asked, crossing his arms as the man made a run for the kitchen.

"What does it look like Lassie?" he called from the other room.

Lassiter grumbled, poking around while Shawn was absent, "It looks like you're fooling around. Spending valuable police time to play with me."

"It's not exactly police time, Lassie." Shawn replied, stepping back into the room with two glasses in hand.

Lassiter was surprised to be handed a short glass of iced scotch with a big smile. He narrowed his eyes at his host, finding the whole situation rather fishy. Though, generally anything that involved the fake psychic gave off that kind of aroma. "Why am I here?"

"Because I saw you up on that stage looking like you'd just watched someone shoot Bambi's mother. You looked real uncomfortable, so I took it into my hands to help you out." Carlton watched as Spencer sipped through the straw of his own drink, plopping down into a loveseat behind the table, and staring up at him with a fond grin. "Besides, don't you think it's better this way? You could have ended up with a grabby old lady."

"How are you any better?" He grunted, taking a seat beside him nevertheless and nursing his scotch.

"I'm hurt, Lassie." Shawn slapped a hand to his chest, his very _naked_ chest, and feigned hurt, "I'm hurt."

"Put some clothes on."

"My house." He retorted, "I reserve the right to be naked if I so please. It's in the constitution!"

Carlton let out a light huff and relaxed against the couch. The scotch was calming, and Shawn's couch was surprisingly comfortable. So, despite himself, Lassiter found himself relaxing, "Spencer, nowhere in the constitution does it say a man has a right to be naked in his home."

"You going to arrest me for it then?"

"It's not illegal either, Spencer." he grumps, "Did you ever bother to learn these things? You're an American. Working for the police! You would think-"

"I'm not exactly one for being _normal_ , Lassie. I like to think I'm rather unpredictable, like the little bald guy in Princess Bride, only taller and with astounding hair."

"He was inconceivable, Shawn, not unpredictable."

"I've heard it both ways."

Lassiter sighed heavily, lifting two fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance, "Spencer, why did you bid on me?"

"Don't you know that I love spending time with you, Lassiekins? You're like a big ball of fun tightly squished into a tight pile of needles."

"Gee." he grumbled, "Thanks."

"I'm serious." Shawn continued, "I think if you just took a load off now and then you could be almost as cool as me and Gus."

"I'd rather stay a pile of needles."

Shawn drooped his head with exasperation and dramatically scoffed, "Really, Lassie. Let me show you a good time, loosen up that tie, bring out the big ball of fun!"

According to his contract he couldn't actually leave, but Shawn didn't need to know that. He pretended to think it over, as if he really had a choice to stay or go. "Fine." he finally replied, "But there will be no pineapples, no psychic crap, and for god's sakes will you _please_ put some clothes on?!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, Psych owns these boys, not I, sadly. If I did, Jules would uh... be kind of alone in the canon verse. Well... maybe Gus. I mean, I've got a fair amount of respect towards that ship... But that's getting off topic. Let's get back to the shassie. Shall we? :)**

 **Also, I'm fairly incapable of writing chapters right the first time, so if you catch a mistake (or even just something you think needs clarification) don't hesitate to let me know. It helps me out more than you may realize.**

 **(Serious revisions made as of 2/1/16)**

* * *

Lassiter had spent a good half hour getting drunk on Spencer's couch. They'd flipped through the channels a few times, Lassiter nursing the tumbler of whiskey Shawn had offered him while Spencer was content to sip down a sparkly, vodka... something. Whatever it was, he'd garnished it with a slice of pineapple and a tiny, pink umbrella. At least the alcohol made it easier to pretend that this wasn't a totally obscene situation to be in.

Shawn fucking Spencer has bought three hours of his time, for him to make Lassiter do as he pleased. Of course, the safety form that he had been anally _insistent_ upon left out any chance for signing any legal documents and non-consensual bodily harm, which he only wrote down because if he-for some unknown reason-decided to punch Spencer, there wouldn't be issues legally. So technically, he was safe.

But praise be to technicalities when it came to Spencer. The man was a loaded confetti canon, ready to shock you with an impromptu rave at any moment. No one was safe from his outrageous behavior. He was unpredictable, an anomaly, obnoxious, clever- and was currently spilling his drink all over himself...

"Spencer, what the hell?"

The man blinked a couple times before actually understanding what it was that Lassiter was referring to. He chuckled with a hic, and nearly spilled his drink again trying to set it down on the table. "I might've had too much."

"You think?" Lassiter grumbled, abandoning his own glass and turning to the side so he could assess the damage. "You need to change your shirt. It's soaked."

"Can I have yours?"

"What? No."

Shawn pouted, crossing his arms over his drink-drenched shirt. He defiantly pressed a little closer until the space between them was starting to reek of sweet alcohol. "Why not?"

"Because you're not five."

"That's not a very good excuse." Shawn grumbled, pouting his lip, "I did pay for your time, you know. I think I deserve a shirt."

"There's an entire closet full of clothes that fit you literally through that door." He grumbled, jerking his head towards Shawn's bedroom. There were only two other rooms in Spencer's tiny apartment, and he'd already used the bathroom, so the assumption that the second one led to a bed wasn't an inaccurate deduction.

"I don't want get up."

"I'll go get it then."

Before he could stand, Shawn looped his arms around Lassie's waist, frowning, "I don't want _you_ to get up either."

Carlton let out an irritated huff, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to ward off a headache. Taking care of an inebriated Shawn Spencer was the last thing he wanted to do with his spare time. At this rate, he'd start getting migraines before the medical association's appropriate age range actually hit him. His head hurt with the sharp twinge of pain anyhow, and the heavy scent of sugary alcohol not offering any help. "Spencer, you're drunk. Let go and I'll get you a new shirt."

"Don't wanna."

"Let go, Spencer."

Shawn smirked, stuck his tongue out and taunted, "Make me."

And Carlton Lassiter was not a man renowned for his self control.

It was probably a stupid idea to bait a cop into tackling him. Okay, not probably, it most definitely _was_ a bad idea. Even more dumbfound of Carlton to actually go through with it. Of course, it wasn't until after Lassiter had flipped them over on the couch, Shawn's face pressed into the couch with an arm pinned behind his back, that Lassiter actually took a moment to consider Spencer might have done it on purpose.

Like this, the man was practically immobilized, trapped under Lassiter like a cat under the couch. However, it didn't stop the (definitely fake) psychic from smirking, letting out a breath of laughter, and making a stupid innuendo. He did it all the time. It was like his trade mark. No action of his came without it. A little sexual harassment at work, some embarrassing teasing, it seemed to be what made him tick.

"Do you get off on pissing people off Spencer?" Lassiter growled, suddenly a lot more irritated than before.

"Just you, Lassikins."

He scoffed. Of course Shawn was tormenting him on purpose.

Then everything went to hell. The honestly compromising position hadn't been brought to Carlton's attention until Shawn decided to shamelessly grind his ass back against Lassiter's groin. Truthfully, he should have seen it coming. He had Shawn pinned down on the couch, ass in the air like some sort of offering, and in order to hold him there, he had to be real close. Like, body draped over him like a blanket, close.

He was about to pull away, just get the hell outta dodge before it occurred to him that that might have been Spencer's plan. If he initiated a little frottage, Lassiter would wrench back like he was on fire because that's what _normal people_ did damn it. But Shawn Spencer _was not_ normal.

His annoyance was ticking up by the second, and he'd be damned if he would give Shawn the satisfaction of getting away with that, "Nice try, Spencer. I'm not letting you up."

Shawn grinned lazily, rolling his hips and pressing back against Lassiter's crotch again, "Who says I want you to?"

"You're deliberately screwing with me." Lassiter grumbled, matter of fact.

Shawn's smile didn't falter too much as he repeated his movements, brushing back, rolling against, and practically grinding on Lassiter. It would be a lie to say he was completely unaffected by it, but, to be fair, any man who didn't react to someone shamelessly rutting against them was probably a serial killer.

It was proven that most serial killers couldn't get off unless they were killing someone pre-orgasm. That was the only exception he could think of really. Lassiter most certainly wasn't a serial killer, so yeah, he was affected. Sue him.

Whether he wanted to acknowledge Spencer's goading or not, he'd rather play Shawn's game for a while than admit defeat. So he gave a little back. It might have been impulsive, but after all the years of sexual harassment at the office, it was a proud moment for his ego to be the one making Spencer uncomfortable. So he ground back, pressing himself against Spencer with a small grunt.

He hadn't expected such a dirty moan for his efforts.

"Oh god, Lassie, do that again."

Lassiter's second thrust was involuntary. He'd been watching closely for a reaction when he moved, Shawn's legs widened the slightest inch, the pressure against his groin intensifying as Spencer let out such a raw groan... His hips had moved forward on their own accord, and the second thrust was greeted with just as much encouragement.

It suddenly occurred to him that Shawn might actually be enjoying this. Well, shit. He may have completely misread the situation. Spencer was... actually enjoying having Lassiter grind against his ass. Well, any man would feel a prideful jolt to his dick now wouldn't he? It was perfectly normal to react to the compliment. Carlton could chock that up to natural bodily responses, or the heavy influence of the alcohol if he really wanted. He took a gulp of air, suddenly feeling a little tighter in his suit and tie, wanting nothing more than to reach up and loosen it...

Then again, maybe it was just part of Shawn's game. Maybe Lassiter was _supposed_ to pull away thinking it was real, then Shawn would have the upper hand again. Ever the sneaky bastard, Carlton wouldn't put it past him. Embarrass Lassiter until he just walked away-

Then Spencer whined.

Honest to god _whined_ , head tipped back, staring Carlton right in the eye.

Lassiter gulped, forced himself to calm down, assess the situation, like any officer should in moments of peril. He could pull away, but if Shawn really was just screwing with him then he would lose. He could always make sure before backing up. Surely _one_ more experimental thrust couldn't hurt. Just to see if this was Spencer plotting or not, a scientific experiment you could say. For the sake of- call it surveillance.

So he jerked forward, grinding his (suddenly very interested) dick into the curve of Spencer's ass, and eliciting the most wanton of noises. Shit. It was real, one hundred percent real and Lassiter was suddenly hyper aware of Shawn's labored breathing, his clenched fist where Carlton had his arm pinned to his back, the other hand white-knuckling the arm of the couch. It was real. _So_ real.

And Shawn was drunk.

Lassiter pulled back so quick he thought he might give himself whiplash. Shawn practically keening at him only made it worse. Shawn was drunk. He wouldn't be acting like this under normal circumstances. It was obviously the influence of the alcohol encouraging such behavior. He just needed to stop this now, before it got out of hand. "Lassieeeee..." Shawn whimpered, pushing himself up and facing the detective, pupils blown wide under his lidded eyes. "Why'd you stop?"

God he needed to get ahold of himself. He stood from the couch, watching closer than he'd care to admit as Shawn rearranged himself. He didn't change position too much, but he brought both hands in front of him, ass still high in the air, like he was waiting for Lassiter to come back. "You're drunk, Spencer." he managed, a little strangled, suddenly feeling even antsier than before.

"We covered this already." he huffed, "Now can we get back to the whole dry humping me against the couch thing?"

"Jesus Spencer." he cursed, "You're drunk, and you're not yourself."

"I'm me." he retorted with a tone of offence, "I'm just a more fun version of me. Pink wine and vodka aside, party time, all the time kind of man. I am good. So, so good. So very good. Like, pineapple smoothie good. Seriously."

"You're not even making sense anymore. Come here."

Lassiter helped Spencer up and off the couch, baring most of his weight as he practically dragged Shawn to his bedroom. It both helped, and didn't help that Shawn was taking this as acceptance to his invitation for sex. For one, Shawn's eagerness made getting him to the bedroom a little easier, but when he got there he was ambushed by Shawn's lips, latching onto his neck.

"Jesus, Spencer!" he groaned, pulling the man off him and plonking him down on the bed.

He did his best to ignore the way Shawn tried to crawl back, preparing himself for Lassiter to come down and join him after he finished pulling off Shawn's messy shirt. Lassiter did not, however, miss the pointed pout on his lips when instead of lying down with him, he merely tugged the blanket over Shawn's shoulders. "Go to sleep." he ordered, tossing Shawn's sticky shirt to the floor.

"You're leaving?"

"No." Lassiter grumbled, sparing a quickly glance towards his watch, "I'm stuck here for another hour and a half."

"I want you to stay."

"Go to sleep Spencer, before you say something you'll regret." _Like how you're not really a psychic. Or why the hell you felt the need to get drunk and seduce me._

"I want you to stay." he repeated, stubbornly trying to sit up, a desperate look on his face.

"I know, I know. Look, I'm staying. See?" Lassiter, as if to prove his point, took a seat on the bed by Shawn's feet, hoping that would appease him enough to at least try and sleep.

He didn't like dealing with drunks, and apparently Shawn was the clingy kind. He only ever got drunk himself on a few occasions, and honestly found it annoying more than anything else. You were vulnerable when drunk. You said things you wouldn't say normally... _did_ things you wouldn't do. Plus, Carlton had been told he himself was a rather grumpy drunk, which honestly that hadn't sat well with him. Personally, he knew from experience that intoxicated people tended to be more erratic, and dealing with a temperamental, stumbling man was just a hassle.

So he didn't get drunk often, and tried to avoid dealing with other intoxicated people whenever he could.

Lassiter resolved to treat this situation like he treated his other encounters with drunks; with kid gloves and as much patience as he could muster. He wouldn't take advantage of Shawn's drunken state. He wouldn't ask questions. He'd just order him to shut up and go to bed, maybe set a glass of water and some painkillers on the bedside table for when he inevitably woke up with a hangover later.

He was in the middle of deciding whether or not to put a bin by the bed in case he threw up when Shawn smiled, brilliantly at him. Like Carlton staying there and staring at him was something amazing in itself. Oh. Yeah. He had been staring at Shawn.

He coughed uncomfortably, "What?"

Shawn's giddy grin didn't falter a bit as Carlton snapped at him. "I'm glad we're friends." he said, the rate of his blinks slowing.

Lassiter thought he might fall off the bed. He stared wide eyed at Shawn for a moment, thinking he must have mistaken something, maybe heard him wrong. There was no way that Shawn Spencer -irritable, annoying, confusing, general pain-in-the-ass Shawn Spencer- considered Lassiter his friend. But Shawn just grinned at him, turned to the side and shut his eyes before pulling the blanket up to his chin.

 _Jesus._

Why couldn't he have been bid on by the handsy old lady?


	4. Chapter 4

**Don't own the rights to these lovely fellas, but I certainly do claim rights to the plot. If they were mine, whew, Psych would have an entirely new rating. Probably a later show time too... Because apparently everything inappropriate airs after midnight.**

 **Curse the sleeping schedules of the perverted!**

* * *

Lassiter didn't know why he was still there. Spencer was just drunk, he wasn't dying or anything. He'd sleep it off, kick back a few painkillers and be just fine.

Carlton had cleaned up, crashed on the couch, and woke up grumbling that morning before deciding to rile through Spencer's kitchen. It was his right to do so, of course. The guy bought his weekend, got drunk, and managed to leave him with enough unjustified guilt to stay the night. He owed him at least a breakfast. But naturally, Spencer never let him have anything. He couldn't even bother to have something in his cupboards worth ingesting.

Lassiter was forced to settle on a bowl of sugary cereal and a speckled banana.

Busy busting about looking for the coffee, Lassiter almost missed Shawn entering the kitchen. _Almost_.

"Why the hell are you so loud?"

"Good morning to you too." Carlton grunted, nodding his head at the man as he took a seat at the counter.

Shawn groaned, rubbing his temple with a pained expression, "Hangovers suck."

"That's your own fault. You drank way too much."

"I needed it." he whined, waving a wrist in Lassiter's direction, "Coffee's in the top left cupboard."

"How did-?"

"Psychic, remember?" Shawn grinned, the smile losing it's shine immediately before he started massaging his forehead again.

Carlton pulled out the bag of grounds, filling the filter and pouring a little bit of water over the top before pressing this thumb down over the button, "You need aspirin or something?" He questioned, fishing around for mugs next.

"Dishwasher." Shawn grunted, "I already took an aspirin."

Lassiter huffed, unpacking two clean mugs from the dishwasher and placing them beside the coffee maker before finally flipping around, "So what posessed you to drink yourself into a hole? I don't see the appeal in hangovers, but maybe that's a personal choice."

Shawn chuckled halfheartedly, "You make it sound like I asked for this."

"You're the one who drank- whatever the hell it was you drank."

Shawn shrugged meagerly, going right back to touching his forehead after making a rather pained face, "Rose wine, vodka, and a splash of ginger ale. With some tropical pineapple syrup for kicks." he grumped, wincing when he actually came in contact with the skin. "Kinda needed to be drunk."

Lassiter scoffed, "What for?"

"No reason."

"Bullshit."

Shawn brought a hand to his sternum, widening his eyes and feigning a gasp, "My, my, what a mouth. You want some soap? I have a pineapple, Dollar Store, pumping one in the bathroom." he offered. "But it doesn't actually taste like pineapple."

"Did you actually-? Nevermind." he sighed, pinching his nose, effectively giving up. "Keep it a secret then."

"It's not necessarily a secret." Shawn huffed, "You just shouldn't need _my_ help figuring it out, _detective_."

Lassiter scoffed, an amused grin threatening to show it's face regardless, "That almost sounds like a challenge, _Spencer_."

"Almost? Well. I gotta step up my game then. It was one hundred percent a challenge. Like... Rocky vs. Creed. Or Oprah vs. Ellen."

"I'm supposed to interrogate you for a reason to drink?"

Shawn smirked, "Well I can assure you, my fine feathered friend, that there is indeed a _very_ important reason." he flinched, the headache returning again, "Not that it was a good idea. No wonder celebrities always seem so pissy. This hurts."

"Must have been a damn good reason."

Shawn grinned triumphantly, "Flawless. Extraordinary. Impossibly good reason."

"Fine." he snapped, "I get it. Challenge accepted."

Shawn's lips did a weird thing... and suddenly he looked like a fish, "Ooooh! Does the winner get a prize?"

"How about I don't smack you?"

"Is that incentive? Cus your manhandling is a huge turn on Lassie."

Carlton scoffed, turning his head back towards the coffee. He wasn't sure if he should bring up what happened the night before. For all he knew, Shawn was drunk enough not to remember it, maybe he wouldn't hold it over Carlton. Of course, it could be wishful thinking. Shawn hadn't immediately jumped into convicting conversation though, so maybe he had a shot. He grumbled contently before voicing what kind of prize he wanted, "If I win, I want you to leave me the hell alone for a whole month."

Shawn huffed from his seat, fidgeting in his stool, "That sounds even less fun. What do I get if _I_ win Lassiefrass?"

"I agree not to shoot you when I _reeeally_ want to."

"This doesn't feel like I'm really winning anything, Lassie. How about a foot rub? Oooh! Or a weeks worth of free smoothies! Pineapple, of course. I'm also partial to signed Celine Dion CDs. I don't know if you could swing that one though. Unless you have some kind of connections there. Did you save her bodyguard? OR-"

"For god's sake, shut up for two minutes." he barked, "Let me get some coffee. I can't deal with your nonsense this early."

"Lassie, it's like... eleven."

"Still too early to deal with you, Spencer. It takes more than one cup of coffee before I can put up with your shenanigans."

Shawn chortled, running his fingers through an invisible beard for a moment, pretending to think, "How about, if I win, I pick my prize?"

"I don't trust that."

"It's answer related, I assure you. If you can't guess it, my prize will clarify. Either way, you get to know. I just get a bonus." he paused, "Aaaand you agree not to punch me for it. Deal?"

"If I would punch you over it? Nope."

"Come on Lassie, trust a little."

Carlton snorted, "Trust? _You_?"

"Yes, trust, it's what friends do."

He smirked, "I'm not acknowledging your Finding Nemo reference."

"Already acknowledged! So," he jumped up from his seat, only wincing a little at how dizzy it made him before offering his hand, "We got a deal?"

Lassiter considered it, slipping his hand into Shawn's before adding, "Deal, but if I want to punch you, God knows I will. No guarantees there."

"Warning taken into consideration."

Carlton worried if maybe he'd made the wrong decision agreeing to play Spencer's game. He watched the man smile gleefully, shaking Lassiter's hand firmly and with purpose, like he'd already won. He grumbled before nodding his head. If their hands lingered a little longer than necessary before pulling away, well, who was there to call them out on it?


End file.
